Burton’s mouth twitched.
“The good kind,” he said. “You didn’t drive out here to ask me about your brother’s barn manager.”
Burke leaned forward, forearms on his knees.
“They’re digging up the Caroline Simms case.”
Burton nodded once.
“Figured they might. Sooner or later, they always go looking for the ones that never sat right.”
“You remember it,” Burke said, though he already knew.
Burton took a slow sip, ice clinking.
“’ Course I do.”
Burke watched him.
“What did you think back then?”
The old sheriff stared out toward the fields, that same thoughtful look Burke remembered from childhood.
“Never liked it,” Burton said at last.
Burke’s hand went to his belt, his fingers brushing the cold leather of his holster—a nervous habit he’d picked up from the man sitting two feet away.
“What do you mean?”
“You remember her folks?” Burton asked.
“Simms family. Good people.”
“Hard-working. Kept to themselves,” Burton agreed. “That father of hers didn’t quit looking.”
He was quiet a beat longer, thumb running once along the sweating glass.
“There are some calls you second-guess for years,” he added. “That one was mine.”
“I heard they put up flyers everywhere,” Burke said.
Burton nodded.
“Everywhere. Sylva. Waynesville. Cherokee. Asheville. Up toward the Smokies.”
“And somebody kept taking them down.”
Burke’s frown deepened.
“Taking them down?”
“They wouldn't just take 'em. They’d peel 'em back until only the staples and a few white shreds of paper were left on the telephone poles. Like someone was trying to skin the memory of her right off the wood.”
“You ever figure out who was doing it?”
Burton shook his head.
“We even tried a camera once. Whoever it was never showed while it was running. Smart enough to know when they were being watched.”
